Peeta's Honeymoon Survival Kit
by Medea Smyke
Summary: Co-written with Geeky-DMHG-Fan. What could Peeta possibly need for his honeymoon? Lord knows. Good thing he's got such good friends, like Gale  and Finnick, to help him figure it all out. Rated T for innuendo and buffoonery. Mind yer retinas. P/K. Very AU
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this fanfiction do not necessarily reflect the views of Suzanne Collins or the fanfiction authors. But they (not Suzanne) had a lot of fun making them up. All reviews containing the term **OOC **will self-destruct. :D

Edit: Sorry about deleting the original post! Formatting errors and unhappy google document conversions galore!

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**Peeta's Honeymoon Survival Kit**

**Part One

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**

_Finnick's POV_

"This little fishy went to market."

*kiss*

"This little fishy stayed home."

*kiss*

"This little fishy had roast beef."

*kiss*

"And this little fishy had none."

*kiss*

"And this little fishy went _bloop_ _bloop_ _bloop_..."

"Finnick!" Annie giggles in our dark Underground bedroom. "That's not my toe!"

"It isn't? Oh…my bad. How about _this_?"

More giggling. "N-no!"

_*Beep* beep* beep*_

_Damn_. I reach out blindly for the nightstand. The alarm clock smashes to the floor, giving one last half-hearted bleep before dying.

"Oops," I mumble. "Second broken clock this week. Say, that's a record."

"I'm turning on the light," Annie warns.

"Aw, just a few more minutes?" I beg.

"I wish we could, Finny, but you have to get up and go to work today."

It's a hard life, but someone's got to do it.

She turns on the lamps before I can wipe the pout off my face. But we both flinch under the florescence, so she doesn't see it.

Annie wraps the sheet around herself while I scrape myself off the mattress. I pull on the pajama pants that I swiped off the floor and begin my "smolder exercises" before a strenuous day of modeling for the rebel propaganda posters:

_Got fight?_

or

_Finnick Odair Wants You…to beat the Jabberjays._

or

_Victory Begins at Home…start a rock garden today._

"We'll pick up where we left off tonight," I promise, waggling my eyebrows as I follow her into the kitchen. "We'll find out where that other fish went right after I get home from work."

Annie frowns over the scrambled eggs she's preparing. "Tonight? We can't. You have Peeta's party later and I have Katniss's. Pass the cheese."

"Do we?" I snap my fingers as it comes back to me. I dig around the in fridge till I find the sliced yellow stuff they call cheese. "I still need to get him a gift."

Annie shakes her head. "Typical. I've had my gift ready for over a month."

"What did you get her?" I ask, handing her the cheese.

"It's a surprise."

This time I'm not quick enough to wipe the pout off my face. Annie sees it and waves the spatula at me.

"Don't worry. I ordered one for myself, so you'll see soon enough."

Pout, be gone.

After exercises and breakfast, I kiss Annie goodbye and head out a little early before my photo shoot on Level 3. My plan is to swing by Level 4 and grab a present for Peeta, which shouldn't take too long.

What would he want? Hmm. Perhaps it'd be easier to figure out what _I'd_ want and then temper that with what I know of Peeta and Katniss's personalities.

Aha! I know just the thing!

While Level 4's more of a flea market than anything, there is a department store in the center. That's my best bet for finding this particular gift.

With a feeling of confidence in my success and my ability to make quick decisions, I enter the doors with a ready smile and stride down the aisles until I reach the end of the store. I don't see the section I'm looking for. Unalarmed by this, I greet the first store associate I meet.

"Excuse me, where do you keep your outdoor and sporting goods section?" I ask the man. He's wearing a smock with the store logo on it and stocking a shelf with hard hats (a popular item in the Underground).

"Sporting goods?" he grunts, scratching his salt and pepper head.

I attribute his surliness to not being a morning person. "You know, fishing and hunting equipment…baseball supplies?" I supply jovially.

"Listen, young man, I don't need you pulling my leg. I haven't had coffee yet." He rolls his eyes and resumes stocking. "Fishing equipment. Huh."

I stick my chest out a little, just to subtly suggest to this man that I'm to be taken seriously. My trident might communicate that better, but it's hardly subtle.

"Look, I need a net."

"Bah! Nets, indeed. Whoever heard of such a notion." He stomps off, cursing pranksters under his breath.

Okay. No nets in the Underground. Fabulous. There goes my first and only idea for Peeta's gift.

With less enthusiasm I trudge back the way I came, pondering my predicament and hoping to see some suggestions along the way. Maybe he would like a hard hat? Katniss's tastes are rather…earthy...after all.

I see a box of sugar cubes, which I snatch half-heartedly. It'll hardly have the same effect without the rest of the present.

Inspiration comes when I spot the ladies' unmentionable section. Aha! I veer left into the rows and rows of displays of cotton, lace, silk, and satin in every hue imaginable.

Past the panties. Past the robes. Past the…oooh. Lingerie.

My mind takes a mental detour for several long moments into a world of pink satins, jewel-toned sequins, and a myriad other delights.

_Snap out of it, Odair._ _You have work to do!_ If only my legs would cooperate.

Note to self: Annie. Feathers. Later.

Right now: Focus.

Just a little longer, though. As soon as I figure out how this strappy thing works then I'll focus. At least that's the plan until I feel a sharp _thwack_ on the back of my head. Ouch!

I turn around to see what hit me, rubbing the knot forming on the back of my head.

An owlish old woman with curlers peeking out from under a tattered kerchief glowers at me. Her purse, which is the size of a steamer trunk, swings back and forth on her sausagey arm.

"I beg your pardon," I stammer. "That hurt."

"Hmph." She stamps her foot. "Serves you right, pervert!"

_Well, I never_. I hold up my left hand for the old bat to see. "Madam, I am a married man."

She sniffs and hobbles off.

I tear myself away from the display of interesting night things. Past the brassieres. Past the stretchy material that smooshes people's flab into some kind of shape. Past the socks.

Aha! Nylons display. Flipping through racks of black, mocha, beige, pink, some with rosettes sewn on…

"Good god, man," I mutter to myself. They don't have anything in this hell hole. "Was this stocked by a prude?"

"Can I help you, sir?" A grumpy attendant asks from the opposite side of the rack. Her eyes send nuclear waves of disapproval at me. Really, the customer service here is terrible.

However, I'm not doing anything wrong, so I say, "I'm looking for fishnet. Gold, preferably."

"G-gold fishnet?" Well, now I know who stocked this display. If red is the color of embarrassment, this woman's purple cheeks are taking it to a whole new level.

"You put it succinctly."

"For whom?" she asks, looking me up and down. "And I doubt we have anything in your size."

I laugh at the mistake and try not to take offense at her rude insinuations about my body. If Sausage Arms and Curlers can fit into these clothes, you better believe I can as well.

"Oh, they're not for me."

The look of relief is as noticeable as the sigh she releases.

"They're for another man."

…

_Gale's POV_

"Was that Finnick Odair being dragged out by security guards?" Rory gasps as we approach Level 4's department store. He should be in class today, but I'm initiating him instead into the world of male gift-giving.

Actually, I just need another man around for ideas since all of my fiancée's fail miserably. It's not her fault she's feminine.

We let the uniforms pass us by and roughly deposit the rabble-rouser into a pile of empty cardboard boxes waiting to be collected by the waste team. With an _oomph! _from the poor sucker, the boxes scatter and the guards return to the store.

"Couldn't be. Odair's like a heathen god to these people. They'd never toss him out of a store. Just some look-a-like, I guess," I mutter in reply as we both try to squeeze through the automatic door at the same time. I still have a solid foot on Rory, in terms of height, but he's broader. His shoulder digs into my ribs.

"Ouch, Gale, stop pushing," Rory grumbles.

"Outta my way, kid. Age before stupidity."

After a short scuffle in the doorway, we get through. I win. Rory rubs his bruised arms while I do a quick recon. I prefer to get in and out of this place as quickly and efficiently as possible. No meandering down every single aisle "just in case we need something" like I have to when Madge's dragging me around.

"Geez," he grouses. "What are we doing here, anyway?"

"Blame Madge. She's making me buy a gift for Peeta."

Rory rolls his eyes. "Girls."

"Yeah," I agree. They just don't understand that giving another guy a gift for nookie is sick and invasive. But I'd rather be accused of that than face Madge empty-handed. "Come on. First aisle to the right and straight on till Hardware."

"So, what do you want to get him?" Rory asks as we pass the stationary aisle. "How about a notebook? He can write poetry or something mushy and Mellarkish."

I grimace. "That is not behavior we wish to encourage, Rory. Odair's already trying to start a club."

"Uh, what are we trying to encourage?"

I have a lot to teach this kid. "In a few short days, Peeta's going to prove his manhood to Katniss. He doesn't want to fumble this. As men, it's our duty to equip him for success. But a wise man must be discerning. There's a lot of guff out there to wade through. For example, Madge suggested a monogrammed hip flask. Is that guff or a necessary article?"

"Guff." Rory snorts. "That's only useful if he wants to hang out with Haymitch on one of Katniss's cranky days."

"That's what I said." I pat Rory on the shoulder. He's an apt pupil. "A flask is totally impractical. If I'm spending money on Mellark, it's not going toward something he'll never use."

Rory scratches his shaggy head and frowns. "So what's he going to use, then?" He waves his hand around in vague directions. "To…uh…for…uh…you know…be the man or whatever?"

"Come and learn, young one." I steer Rory down an aisle. The overhead sign reads HARDWARE. We stop in front of a shelf and I wait for Rory to figure it out. His eyes shift back and forth down the displays, looking like a deer in headlights.

"Uh….you're going to...replace his air filters?" Rory says with a dopey, hopeful expression on his face.

"Not a bad idea," I encourage. Mellark probably doesn't know how to do that. "But no. Try Duct tape."

"Duct tape?" Rory asks, his eyes nearly crossing with confusion. "Why?"

I palm my forehead – it's really too obvious. "In case it falls off on their wedding night, Rory."

"Wha?" Rory's eyes pop out and he staggers backward into the other shelving unit, spilling boxes of lightbulbs onto the floor. "IT CAN FALL OFF?" He squeezes his knees together. "Oh god."

I shrug. "Probably. If he works it hard enough. I asked Mrs. Everdeen about it."

"Ew." Rory covers his mouth like he's about to puke. Poor kid's clearly disturbed. But hey, that's life. Better to go in prepared.

I grab a roll. It's of sufficient length. I figure, if Peeta's careful, he'll get good mileage out of it.

"Do you think one roll will be enough?" Rory gulps. "I mean…"

I wave the tape under Rory's nose. "This is just to get Peeta started after the wedding," I tell him. "According to the man code, we are not under any obligation to get him a lifetime's supply."

Rory nods sagely. Then he wrinkles his nose. "Is that all you're gonna get him?"

"You're right. That would be cheap." And I wouldn't want to risk Madge's displeasure. So, I grab some rope a few aisles down. Just in case.

"Won't that chafe?"

If it does, it's not my problem. Still, I try to answer the question. "If he ties it around-"

Rory holds one of his hands up, looking pained. "I change my mind. I don't want to know."

"Fair enough. Maybe when you're older," I say. "Now we need gift wrap. Any ideas?"

* * *

**To be continued**

_Thanks for reading!_

If you'd like to see Finnick's war posters visit Marvalous's DA gallery (just remember to put the real "dots" back in): http:/marvalous(dot)deviantart(dot)com/gallery/


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Wow. I don't know that either Geeky or I expected the epic response to Part I. LOL, I'm glad ya'll enjoy quirky humor. Thanks! Anyway, this is Peeta's bachelor party. If innuendo and buffoonery burns your retinas, ye be warned. Any remaining mistakes and typos belong to Geeky. (Yeah. I wish that were true. ;)) Also, have we mentioned that this is AU? Because it really, really is. :D

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**Part Two**

_Finnick's POV_

My photo shoot is a bust after the ill treatment I sustained at the hands of minimum wage goons they hired for security. If only the Capitol had known about them. They would have been a perfect addition to the Games. Man was not made to be cast upon concrete floors. Bruises, and rumors of bruises, everywhere on my body from landing on those infernal boxes and crates. I feel like a piece of rotten fruit picked over and forgotten, then eventually thrown out with all the other smelly produce. Whatever happened to customer service?

Fortunately, the day isn't a total loss in terms of accomplishment even if my looks are ruined and I ache all over. My personal assistant, Cole, found an entire stash of gold fishnet leggings in the costume department for me to use for Peeta's gift. I felt so excited that I almost told Annie when I came home for lunch. But then I remembered that she's being withholding about her gift for Katniss, so it's only fair if I keep my gift a secret too. I have no problem with keeping secrets, what with my years of practice. It's resisting the desire to model my fishnet concoction for Annie that's so difficult.

Add that to my mantra: Annie. Feathers. Fishnet. Later.

The photographer didn't want me back for the afternoon, which is good. I wasn't fit to be seen. It's not vanity, but the need to keep up morale. There are very few things that can be depended upon in D13. If the people saw me like this, marred and disfigured, I'm not sure they could handle it. On the bright side, it gave me the opportunity to make Peeta's gift from the stockings.

I finished in time for a light supper with Annie, then she had to leave. Apparently a coalition of Katniss's closest female friends are forcing her to get the first pedicure she's had since Plutarch snatched her out of the Quarter Quell arena.

I sort of wish I was going too. The calluses on my big toes could use some work. Instead, I'm going to be a he-man and hit up the bar for Peeta's last hurrah as a single man.

At seven o'clock, I close up the apartment and head up to Level 4's very own Happy Gnome. A pub that sounds like it should be filled with mushrooms and little men with long beards and pointy hats. It very nearly does have those things. D13 folks are short and stout and hairy little beasts. Mostly. They don't wear pointy hats though. There's a safety code to consider and they'd probably poke all of us tall overlanders in the eyes if they did. No, Thirteeners go for hardhats or nothing at all.

I ask the stocky host where the party's supposed to be held. He wants to see my ID first. I say that if he wanted to know my name, he should have just asked.

Stocky isn't amused. He sends me up the stairs to the loft with one curt jab of his bitty thumb. Yeesh.

I plod up the steps. It hurts my sore limbs. I take another glance around the upper loft of the Happy Gnome, which Cinna took the liberty of renting for the evening. Haymitch is already here, listening to something Cinna's saying about the room, judging by the way the designer's pointing around. There isn't much to consider, if you ask me. Three rock walls and the balcony. Rock floors. Rock fireplace with fake fire. It's almost like a grotto, without any water. The bar commands one wall and a bunch of square tables have been pushed together on the adjacent wall.

I toss the gift bag down on a small side table that already has two gifts on it. Feeling every bruise, I groan my way onto a stool and order a glass of milk from the bar.

"Skim or 2%?" Bartel, the shiny-pated bartender grunts at me.

Haymitch walks up and slaps me on the back. Dude is rough. I nearly faceplant into the counter, so Haymitch answers for me.

"Better make it 2%. Double scotch for me."

"Does it look bad?" I whisper to Haymitch after taking a long pull of cow juice. At least he didn't say I needed whole milk. That'd really be a bad day.

Haymitch glances over at the gift bag. "How am I supposed to know?"

"Not the gift," I gripe. "Me?"

He takes a moment to survey the damage, then guffaws. "You know, you're ugly for the second time in your life," Haymitch replies with no small amount of relish.

"It's better than being handsome for only the second time," I gripe back.

Haymitch sniffs and takes another drink. "I wouldn't know. But you'll get over it. Just have to be more careful when you play Little Fishies with your wife."

I feel my eyes widen in surprise. So much for a poker face. "You know about that?"

"You're kidding right?" he grunts.

Nope, not really.

Haymitch's face screws up in a look of incredulity. I don't think I'm usually this slow. Maybe my injuries weren't limited to my body. I run my hands through my hair, checking for bumps. Nothing there.

"There's a reason nobody comes to your dinner parties anymore, lover boy," he says.

"What? Nonsense. At our last party the guests couldn't make it because of that 24-hour virus going around." Something really gruesome. Shakes. Pustules. Incontinence. They all told me they'd come down with the...wait a minute. "There's no such things as the gravel pox is there? Not even in the Underground?"

Cinna and Haymitch exchange incredulous glances. Again. I guess that's my answer.

"Anyway, so what if you're temporarily as ugly as the rest of us?" says Haymitch before he knocks back the rest of his double scotch. "Big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal," I sulk. "Ruined my photoshoot and possibly the entire rebel effort."

Cinna clears his throat. "I'm sure it will be fine, Finnick," he assures me.

"Maybe if it were just today's shoot, but with these," I lift my shirt, highlighting a set of washboard abs splashed over with garish, grape-jelly bruises on my right and left sides, "I'm out of commission for at least a week. Maybe two." Just wait till these turn lime green. Ugh. It doesn't bear thinking.

Haymitch snorts. "What kind of posters are you making again?"

"Propaganda posters for the rebel forces, naturally," I sniff. "To encourage the troops."

Haymitch raises his brows. "And why does that require you to have your shirt off?"

I just shake my head. "_You _would never understand." I pull down my shirt and then rest on my elbows, burying my fingers in my hair. "What do I do, Cinna?" I groan.

Cinna studies the bruises and scrapes visible on my bicep in that quiet, calculating way of his. "You're part of the rebellion. People expect you to shed blood, sweat, and tears for the cause," he says simply. "Your photographers should incorporate your war wounds into the posters." I notice his fingers absentmindedly painting invisible pictures on the waxed countertop, probably itching to use his pots of colored minerals that would bring out just the right shades on my damaged skin.

"Thanks, Cinna," I say, feeling considerably more cheerful than before. "You're right. And don't women love damaged heroes? Annie's always fingering my scars."

A green look passes between Haymitch and Cinna. Did I shock them? I have to remind myself that they're bachelors.

* * *

_Gale's POV_

Rory and I arrive in time to hear Finnick say that his wife likes playing connect the dots with his scars. Rory cringes and I can tell he's wondering if he really heard what he thinks he heard. Yeah well, he's in for an education tonight; people fingering each other is probably low on the list of tawdry subjects bound to arise.

"Ew," he gripes. "There goes my youthful innocence. Remind me why I have to come to this thing?"

"You're a friend of the bride's family," I remind him.

His face screws up in a question. "Wouldn't it make more sense for me to go to Katniss' bachelorette party then?"

"No," I grouse.

"Does Peeta even know who I am?"

"Yes."

"No, he doesn't."

"Listen, Rory," I say, stopping to grip his shoulder when we reach the landing. "I'm not rubbing elbows all night with these fruitcakes by myself. If you behave, I'll buy you a drink."

"A real drink or a Finnick Odair drink?" he wants to know.

"How do you know what Odair drinks?"

"Prim told me." Rory shrugs. "Sometimes he drinks his way into indigestion and she's given him pills when he comes to the infirmary."

Yeah. That's way more than I wanted to know about Finnick Odair. Thanks, Rory. And Prim.

"I'll buy you a real beer," I answer, ending the topic.

Cinna greets us and tells Rory where to set the gift box down. There's already a bag with curly ribbons hanging all over it, something wrapped in wrinkled newsprint and covered over with water rings, and a smaller, neatly wrapped box with a card on top. Huh. We forgot a card. Oops.

About a second later I'm over the slight breach in gift protocol. What would I write anyway?

_Dear Peeta,_  
_Huzzah. She chose you instead of me._

See? Rory and I did him a favor and spared him the embarrassment.

Still, I wonder what Cinna wrote. It's obviously from the designer because nobody else has an obsession with fire - the envelope is embossed in glittery flames.

_Dear Peeta,_  
_It was an honor to truss up Katniss in a manner pleasing to you. Orange4ever...Sorry the fake boobs didn't work out. Blame Haymitch. He's spiteful like that._

_I heart you,_  
_Cinna_

Rory elbows me to draw my attention away from the presents. "Buy me beer."

Fine. We head over to the bar where Haymitch, Cinna and Finnick are loitering. We exchange more variations of _hey_ and I get Bartel to overlook Rory's age. The kid takes a swig of brew and makes a sour face. He sets the bottle down on the counter where it starts to sweat. I guess I'll be finishing it.

Bartel sets out a basket of peanuts while we wait for the Mellarks to show, and Rory and Finnick dig in at the same time, nearly upsetting the basket.

"What's wrong with your hand?" Rory asks.

"What? Oh. You mean the bruises?" says Finnick. "Nothing."

"Hey, we saw you get tossed out of the store today when we went to get Peeta's present," Rory exclaims like he just saw a turtle sprout wings. "Wow. Are all those bruises from that? You're kind of delicate or something."

Finnick harrumphs.

"Is that what this is about?" laughs Haymitch. "I thought you and Annie had found a new game to play. This Little Bruisie."

Finnick chokes. "I beg your pardon! That's just gross." I have to agree with Finnick. That is pretty gross. Too bad he didn't stop there. "If you must know, I was shopping in the ladies unmentionables for a certain kind of appurtenance when-"

"Apper...wha?" ask Rory.

"Nothing," I mutter. Kid doesn't want to know that Finnick Odair shops for women's underwear. That's bound to make him a little screwy.

Fortunately I'm spared from explaining women's underthings by a ruckus downstairs announcing the arrival of the lucky *cough* groom.

The noise owes itself to Peeta's two older brothers, Leven and Bran, who are frogmarching Peeta between them. He's putting up a good fight for a gimp too, looking for all the world like he'd rather be far, far away from this party.

The Mellark boys jointly throw him into the center of the room once they get him up the stairs. He wobbles a little on his good leg before righting himself. He tugs his shirt down and faces the rest of us.

Peeta clears his throat. "Hey."

Cinna rubs his hands together like he's eying a potential masterpiece he's yet to create. "Welcome to the party, Peeta. This will be a night to remember."

Dough boy looks like that's his worst fear, so the rest of us settle for variations of _hey_ and leave out any optimistic platitudes.

"All set for the big, big, big day?" says Haymitch as he shoves a drink into Peeta's hand, sounding way too much like his girlfriend Effie Trinket.

Peeta scratches his head and smiles timidly. "Uh, I'm still working on the cake, but otherwise, yeah."

Everyone looks at his brothers, wondering why Peeta's making his own wedding cake. Leven or Bran, I can never tell which one's which, shrugs, clearly unconcerned. "He won't let us help him."

"Not after that thing you baked for tonight," Peeta grumbles. "Geez. I wondered why you had all those anatomy books lying around in the kitchen."

"Oh, and what was it that you made?" Cinna asks.

The younger brother, Number Two, pulls a disgusted face. "It doesn't matter. Peeta threw it out."

"So that Katniss wouldn't kill me," Peeta replies with a hint of exasperation.

"Yeah, Katniss is a peach," Haymitch jeers. He gets a look in his eye…a sort of jaundiced look…and I can tell that he's reminiscing about his old mentoring days. "I told you she'd be a hard sell, but I guess she finally believed you were dopey enough to fall for her."

Despite the insult, Peeta looks touched, which makes him look dopey too. What with the grin, and the smoopy blue eyes. Yeah, well, I wouldn't take it too personally. Katniss is a sucker for guys on the brink of death. And he's been on the brink a few more times than anyone. Overachiever.

Haymitch passes around cigars, even though they are a contraband item. Old ventilation systems and all that. Rory gets stuck with a blue "It's a Boy!" bubblegum cigar.

"Uh, is there something I should know about Katniss?" Rory asks while he cringes at the indignity of the bubblegum cigar. I don't feel sorry for him. His expensive beer is leaving a water ring on Bartel's counter.

"Nope. You're just underage," says Haymitch.

We smoke for a while, listening to the boring details of the wedding prep, then dinner's brought in. Sometime between buffalo wings and dessert, Haymitch tries to give Peeta The Talk, only his speech is starting to slur and we can't tell if he's talking about sex or going to the dentist. Either way, for the first time in my life I feel sorry for Effie Trinket. Finnick steps in to help, but it isn't really an improvement. Unless you're into hearing about the sexual adventures of Finnick and Annie Odair. Which has crazy written all over it.

"And if you have any questions, never hesitate to ask," he says, after we've all learned never to touch the dice at one of the Odair game nights. "Annie and I have a real soft spot for you and Katniss. We think of you almost as another version of ourselves."

Number One and Number Two look about ready to burst into tears, and Peeta shoots them a dirty look. "Thanks, Finnick. Katniss and I like you and Annie too, but..." Peeta hems and haws around the obvious.

Finally, Rory and his lack of tact rescue him. "Peeta isn't anything like you."

"I know," Finnick generously allows. "He's like Annie." The victor's eyes take on a glassy, faraway look, and he starts caressing the table, almost like it's the skin of his dear wife. I look away when I see her name forming on his lips. There is not enough beer in the world to prepare me for watching him become intimate with a table.

Peeta shifts in his seat, trying to keep the look of terror from his face. And he thought he'd left stuff like this behind when he'd escaped the Hunger Games arenas.

"Uh. Thanks." The words sound strangled. He probably just realized that as soon as Finnick loses interest in the table, he'll be coming after him next. After all, Peeta is just like his Annie.

I clear my throat, knowing I should have intervened a long time ago. "As profound as this all is, I think it's time to open the gifts."

Finnick snaps out of his trance, his dilated pupils now narrowed down to pinpricks and focused on me. The lightning fast transition from lover to fighter is almost scary. Under normal circumstances, this would be funny. But Finnick is not just some underwear model. I've seen what he can do with his trident.

The real trident, that is. Just to clarify.

"We are trying to adequately prepare Peeta for this right of passage into manhood. Don't be selfish."

What the hell? "I'm not selfish."

"Then what's your problem?" he asks, leaning in towards me. Cinna gives me an apologetic look and mouths what might be "Needs more milk." Placing a restraining hand on Finnick, he offers to buy the lunatic a glass of chocolate milk, and the two head over to the bar. My life is spared, but only just.

Oblivious to Finnick's attempt on my life, Haymitch opines, "Hawthorne's jealous. Or maybe he's just scared."

"Why would he be scared?" Rory asks, sticking out his chest like a ruffled turkey intent on defending my honor. Normally, I'm all for us Hawthornes banding together, but the Man Code and pride require that I handle this myself.

"Drop it, Rory," I mumble out of the side of my mouth, hoping he takes the hint.

"It's simple," Haymitch says, draining the rest of his glass before slamming it to the table. Now that everyone in the Happy Gnome is staring at him, he pronounces. "Gale Hawthorne's a virgin."

_Hell's teeth_! I shift in my chair, cursing under my breath. I hadn't bargained for this. And how the hell does Haymitch know that?

"You're a virgin?" Number One bursts into laughter, along with a few other people in the bar downstairs who are listening. Nosy perverts. "How long have you been with the Undersee girl?" Number Two asks, through tears.

I send them both a withering glare. It's not any of their business. And all this time I thought Peeta was the worst of the Mellark clan.

"What's wrong with that?" My clueless brother tries to help. "Mom says if the girl is special, she's worth waiting for."

Hell's teeth. I wish Katniss were here to shoot me. Why is she never around when I need her to shoot me?

"Yeah, or what's more likely, Madge won't let him until they're married," Haymitch grouses in his _I'm her guardian_ voice, then he gives me the evil eye. "And it better stay that way."

"No, Gale told me that-"

I thwap Rory upside the head. "Shut up," I mutter.

Finnick slaps me on the back. Now that he's had his chocolate milk, apparently we're best friends forever. "There's nothing wrong with that. We'll just have to have another heart-to-heart when the time comes."

Oh god. Madge and I are eloping.

I'm spared from giving my thanks for Finnick's consideration when Cinna transfers the gifts from the side table to the dinner table.

"Speaking of virgins," Haymitch says, returning to his normal slur. He pushes a gift forward. "Here."

The newsprint encasing the gift practically disintegrates upon contact after the abuse of absorbing all the moisture from so many of Haymitch's drinks. Peeta dusts off what looks like a really thick textbook and blushes. His eyes rove over the cover and then he tries to hide it from the rest of us beneath the pile of paper.

My dopey kid brother decides to fish it out. Picking it up, he also reads the title, then flings it away. "Gah. My eyes!"

The infamous book slides across the table through the empty husks of peanut shells and straight into Finnick's gut. "Ow. My bruises!" he cringes. He picks it up off his lap but starts looking at it before he gives it back to Peeta. We can all see the title now, _Sutra Yourself_: _Kama Sutra for the Uninitiated_, until Finnick tilts the book sideways. "Ooh. I hadn't thought of that."

Peeta sinks lower into his chair. "Thanks for the...thought, Haymitch."

I shudder. I would never want Haymitch thinking of me when he purchased one of those books. So this is what I have to look forward to when I have my bachelor party? I don't care what Madge says. Elopement.

"Sure, kid. Just don't let Katniss see it," Haymitch says. "She'll burn it."

"And that would be a travesty. Though you could always regift it." Finnick waggles his eyebrows. "My birthday's coming up."

A collective shudder runs round the table. Remind me to be busy that day.

Rory hands our camouflage-wrapped box to Peeta next. My brother wrapped it himself, scrawling _PEaTa _across it with a black marker. Keep it classy, kid.

"It reminded me of how you like pasted yourself into the riverbank in your Games," Rory says, explaining his gift-wrap choice.

Peeta looks like he'd rather not be reminded, but says, "That's thoughtful, Rory." Good one, bro. Nothing says considerate like bringing up one of Mellark's many near-death experiences.

Peeta peels back the wrapping paper with painstaking precision. Turns out that he's the sort of person who can't bear to rip paper. And after ten minutes, while he's working on the second piece of tape, I'm white-knuckling my seat and shooting daggers out of my eyes at the punctilious groom. We don't have all damn evening, Mellark. If he likes the paper so much, we've got a whole roll sitting useless in our quarters that he can have.

Finally, he maneuvers the tape and opens the box. Peeta blinks into it for a bit. Guess he's speechless. What did I tell Rory? Mellark never thinks of the practical things.

"Um. Hmm. Duct tape and...rope." He gingerly lifts each item out and sets them on the table.

"Wow," says Number One. "Nothing says bachelor party like a gift from _hard_ware."

Number Two snorts into his beer.

"I...don't know what to say," Peeta says humbly. Or maybe that's just his dumb face. "Gale. Rory. Thanks."

"Yeah. We thought it would help, so _It_ doesn't fall off," Rory says like he knows what he's talking about. "The tape doesn't look very comfortable but you wouldn't want to lose your-"

Mellark blanches and we all hear his knees bang against the table top when he almost tumbles out of his seat. "Fall off?" he gasps. "But, surely that doesn't happen. Does it?"

I shrug. I can see why this information would freak out Rory, but not Peeta. "You're the fake leg expert," I tell him. "Not me."

Peeta's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Fake leg...the tape is for my leg?"

"You have a fake leg?" Rory gasps.

"Of course it's for his leg, what did you think it was for?" I grouse at Rory before turning to Peeta, "You don't want _that_ falling off, do you?"

"Oh. Heh." Peeta laughs sheepishly.

That was more complicated than it had to be and I'm pleased that someone else hands off the next gift. It's Finnick's bag with all the curly-q ribbons on it. Peeta takes a minute to fold the tissue paper before he inspects the contents of the bag.

I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was anyway.

Peeta sets a box of sugar cubes and what looks like cut strips of fishnet pieced together into a gaudy miniskirt on the table. We all sort of stare at it for a moment, while Finnick reclines happily in his chair. Judging by his basket collection, it's probably safe to assume that Finnick wove the fishnet together himself. Cinna admires quality of work. How nice for Annie, having a husband with such nimble fingers.

"It's uh...I don't know what to say, Finnick," Peeta says, and I doubt he's lying. What the hell is he supposed to do with sugar cubes and a net?

"I hope you appreciate this gift, Peeta. You have no idea what lengths I went to in order to get it." Finnick grins artlessly. "And I happen to know that Katniss has a weakness for both items. At least she did, where I am concerned."

Peeta makes a strangled sound in his throat. He puts the skirt away, but Number One grabs it out of the bag and dangles it under Peeta's nose, a manic twinkle in his eyes.

"I think you should model it for us, little brother," he challenges.

Peeta gapes at his oldest brother. "What?" he chokes. "You mean this isn't for Katniss?"

Finnick laughs, nearly spitting out his drink. "What would give you that idea? It doesn't even fit her."

"Alright, Peeta, time to show off your mankini," says Number Two. "And while you're at it, you might want to try on this." He pulls out a few colorful containers and sets them down gleefully on the table, each jar making a successively louder 'bang.' After a second's consideration, Number Two shoves a blue and orange jar forward. "I think you'd look really good in Titillating Teal, but maybe you'd prefer Orgasmic Orange?" He looks up to see our incredulous faces. "What? Orange is his favorite color."

Next to me, Rory whispers, "What's org—"

"Why not both?" I bark. It's more like a yelp. I am not explaining that to Rory right now. Maybe never. Man-gifts are one thing. He can charter that other territory on his own.

I know Peeta probably didn't have high expectations of me coming to his defense this evening, but I can tell by the look of abject horror that maybe I've plunged below his lowest ones. Eh. Might as well go the full nine yards.

"Cinna could help give you a makeover."

The designer and the groom exchange glances, and though Cinna takes the jars, he looks apologetic, as if to say that he wouldn't have put this party together had he known the guests were such rabblerousers.

Peeta is forced to remove his shirt, but fights for the right to keep his pants on. Some of the guests remind him that he didn't mind Katniss stripping him down to his bare nothings on camera once upon a time. The orange backpack comes up.

Peeta loses his pants. If he's lucky, his brothers will give it back to him before we leave for the night. But it doesn't seem to be Peeta's lucky day.

Then comes the body paint. Cinna has to use his fingers. He blinks at the stuff on his fingertips with mild consternation for a moment, then quietly reproduces Peeta's camouflage job in his first Games.

When it's over, Peeta blinks, shifts in his net skirt, tries to pull it down, but then it slips too low on his waist, and he's stuck there grabbing the sides of the net, looking like he'd rather use it to catch his brothers and beat them to a pulp.

There is a little bit of info Odair overlooked in making Peeta his man-skirt. Some might argue that it's actually a big bit of info. In any case, the outfit looks extra ridiculous since Mellark only Has. One. Leg. The gold will clash with the duct tape too. But what can I expect from an underwear model masquerading as a rebel soldier?

"What's wrong, little brother?" Number One asks, his face contorted in a mischievous grin that looks an awful lot like the look Rory and Vick give me when they've just told an embarrassing childhood story to Madge.

In his discomfort, Peeta's forgotten about the low slung net and starts rubbing his arms as he shifts from foot to, uh...pole? The orange and blue paint swirls together. It starts to give me a headache just looking at it. "I dunno," he says with his eyebrows all knotted in consternation. "I feel kind of itchy."

Number One and Number Two whisper amongst each other, and finally decide to let everyone else in on their secret. "I think the word you're looking for is stimulated," Number Two says with a snort. "Paid extra for that."

"It's also flavored," Number One adds, dipping his fingers into one of the pots and popping them in his mouth. "Like icing."

"You can thank us later, Peety," and then they both burst into laughter.

While Peeta looks anything but grateful, Finnick snatches one of the jars and closes it before Number One can eat it all. "Where did you guys find this stuff?" he says, scrutinizing the label thoughtfully. Who would have guessed it? Finnick Odair interested in an unmentionable "appurtenance." Big surprise there. Good thing I know about the gravel pox and he doesn't.

While Finnick's reading the labels on the jars, Haymitch orders Peeta to strike a pose.

Peeta blushes, but does as he's told, probably realizing that the sooner he plays along, the sooner his friends will tire of teasing him. So, he poses like he's a little teapot, with one hand on his hip.

Smirking like a shark, Finnick gets out of his seat and comes around the table to whisper in Peeta's ear. Another of his little secrets. Guy is full of them. Peeta backs away, mortified. "No, I can't say that."

Finnick whispers again. Peeta looks cowed into submission. Maybe Finnick is more than the empty-headed underwear model I've been lead to believe. But Peeta's mostly just a sissy.

"Wait a minute," Finnick says. He tears into the box of sugar cubes and plops a few into Peeta's open palm. "Okay. Go."

Peeta mumbles.

"I can't hear you," Haymitch chants.

"Do. I. Distract. You?" he grits out, turning very red beneath the layers of titillating teal and orgasmic orange.

The whole table cracks up and I think even I might bust my gut. Fat tears roll down Haymitch's face, he's laughing so hard. He barely manages to signal to Bartel, who comes over with a tray of glasses and a bottle of bourbon.

While the glasses are being filled, Cinna passes off his box to Peeta. He peeks inside and then smiles the first genuine smile all evening. Everyone else is too busy grabbing bourbon to notice and so the box is put away without its content being revealed.

When the glasses are passed around, Finnick rises to his feet. After a few more giggles, he says. "Gentlemen, if you will raise your glasses. A toast to Peeta, who is making an honest woman out of Katniss...for the second time."

"Um," says Peeta, amidst the clanking of glasses. "We weren't really married before the Quell, Finnick. Remember?"

Oh yeah. The clanking stops.

Finnick starts over. "To Peeta, who is making an honest woman out of Katniss...for the first time."

"Um, actually, we never..."

Finnick sighs, then drawls out, "To Peeta, who is making a woman out of Katniss for the first time. Even though he claimed, in public, to have already stolen her virtue and then conveniently took it all back. There. Does that pass muster?"

A sloppy grin smears over Peeta's face, so we take that as the go-ahead and down our whiskey.

Cinna sets his glass down and beams fondly at Peeta. "Now that you have everything you need for your honeymoon—"

"May you live to tell the tale," I mutter.

Haymitch snatches Rory's whiskey out of his hand and downs it. "Amen."

* * *

**A/N**: TBC! Part III – The Honeymoon! Special thanks to Geeky-DMHG-Fan for being so fun to write with. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Howdeh! We're back with more shenanigans. The tone of this chapter is a little different, for all of you bleeding heart Peeta lovers (us included!), and we hope you enjoy. :D

* * *

**Part Three**

_Peeta's POV_

Katniss and I manage to escape through the end of the receiving line amidst a chorus of cheers and crude suggestions. Prim uncovers her ears long enough to hug Katniss and then me, while Mrs. Everdeen pretends she isn't crying again. Wedding guests throw ticker tape made from shredded confidential paper by the handful. Effie, in her new role as wedding planner, says it's the only way they can recycle them. The tiny pieces keep sticking to my lips, eyelashes and hair while I shake hands with our friends. Before we can get sucked back into the fray in the conference room converted into a banquet hall, I hook Katniss's elbow and we're out of here.

They give us a head start back to the flat, which is kind. In Twelve, merchant families have a tradition of stealing the bride or the groom if they're caught on the way back from the Justice Building. I sort of hoped that this tradition wouldn't carry over, but my brothers are full of shenanigans, so I'm not taking any chances. We make it down the corridor without getting molested, almost to the lift we'll take from Level 1 down to Level 6.

Well, okay. I take a small chance and drag Katniss into a service hallway. We take turns brushing off ticker tape, first from her hair, then trying to get it out of my suit. Paper falls around us like snow we trample under our feet.

"Did you get everything?" she asks, turning around for me to see.

"Not quite." I start by kissing off a speck of frosting from her lips. But no one's around so I gently pin her against the wall, nuzzling her neck. She pulls me closer by my belt loops. I groan into the loose curls of her hair.

"S-shh," she giggles, which is definitely the result of the champagne punch. Then she frowns a little. "Do we go back and mingle with the guests?" she asks glumly.

"Not us." I don't even consider it. "Honeymoon's started, Mrs. Mellark. It's every man for himself."

Katniss's head turns toward the main corridor a second before I hear it. Voices carry down the hallway toward us. I'm pretty sure I hear Bran's.

"Time to disappear," I say, backing off of her. She hikes the full skirt of her dress up around her knees and she sets off at a run, dragging me, stumbling down the hallway behind her. Maybe I've had too much champagne punch too. I drag my feet as we reach the lift.

Katniss frowns back at me impatiently. "Peeta?"

I clear my throat. "Uh, we have to do this right." She scowls a little because she doesn't know what I'm talking about. So, I hold out my arms. "Jump up."

She balks and her eyes look back and forth to see if anyone's around to watch us. "Why?"

I put my arms down, then scratch my head. "The groom carries the bride over the threshold. I guess I could piggyback you there, but I think this is the more traditional way."

"I've never heard of this tradition," she says, crossing her arms protectively over her middle.

"Finnick told me about it." Which is true. He knows all about romantic customs. And now I know way more about Finnick than I ever wanted to. But this one sounds fun and half of the time, Katniss is carting me around. I step closer and stroke her cheek. "Humor me?"

"Is your leg up to it?" she asks her shoes. At least, that's what she's looking at.

Is my leg up to it? Sure. If not, there's a roll of duct tape with my name on it, compliments of the Hawthorne boys. But Katniss is a toothpick. I've carried around bags of flour heavier than she is. And besides, this prosthetic leg's going to outlast me, if we're honest.

"Sure, sure."

Katniss uncrosses her arms. "All right, fi—"

I sweep her off her feet, while she yelps and grabs my neck. I get a face full of fabric for my efforts.

"Help."

"Sorry, stupid tulle," she stammers, trying to squash down the layers of scratchy material. We pause for a moment to absorb the fact that she knows the name of the fabric. Sheepishly, she resumes muttering, "Cinna's fault… perfect dress, but totally impractical…look like a cupcake."

"You look perfect," I tell her, slowly carrying her into the lift. Katniss punches the floor button for me. "I almost fell over when you walked down the aisle with your mom."

Katniss blushes and bites the side of her lip. I don't think she'll ever be comfortable with compliments, but we've got a long time to practice. Then she says with a smirk, "Was that before or after you started crying?"

"I had something in my eyes," I protest.

"Right." She tilts her nose upward in that superior way she used to in our first Games when we went hunting. Er, when she went hunting and I just made a lot of noise and pestered her.

We keep the banter up because it seems to make her comfortable, but I feel like a bundle of restless energy. We can't get to our quarters soon enough.

At Level 6, I squeeze through the lift doors and take the right side toward our door. 651. My arms are filled with my bride and her dress, so Katniss has to unlock the keypad. The door slides open, but I pause and Katniss gives me a worried look. "Are you okay?"

"Sure, yeah," I tell her, but I swallow nervously. "Uh, I just wanted to say, good luck with the marriage, Katniss."

"Good luck, Peeta," she replies, giving me one of her rare smiles. "Want me to shake your hand?"

"Cheeky." Unable to help myself, I kiss her on the nose, which always makes her scowl.

"All right," she says. Moment's over. "Now maybe we should get inside before someone sees us acting like fools."

"Right you are." I carry her over the threshold and set her down in the dark, subdivided room that serves as a kitchen, living room, and well, whatever else we need it for. I find the master switch and lamps in this room and our bedroom turn on. "So…what now?" I ask, removing my tie.

Katniss raises a brow, attempting for cool and aloof, but her skin is warm all over. "Cards?"

"Cards? Ha. Funny, Everdeen…um, Mellark." I've been waiting for this moment for nearly six months. More if you count the time before we were engaged. And all the time I spent being in love with her...which would bring the total count to...a very long time. "Try again, sweetheart."

I lean in to kiss her, but she jumps away from me like I'm on fire, which is true, but not in a literal sense. "I need to change out of this dress," she says.

"O-kay," I drawl slowly. I've waited this long, I can wait a couple more minutes.

Offering me a weak smile, she disappears into my, correction, _our_ room. I watch her through the open door as she fishes out a white pasteboard box from the closet. Then she escapes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. I decide to be productive during my time alone. Retrieving the champagne from Effie which has been chilling in the refrigerator, I pause at the sight of a pastry box I know for a fact wasn't here when I had to vacate the apartment yesterday so Katniss could start moving in without me seeing her. Effie forbade it. Capitol custom, she said. It's amazing how much of our wedding turned into a hodge-podge of traditions. I guess that's Thirteen for you.

I grab two glasses, but only fill one. I drink that down and pour another. I'm looking forward to this, but I'm also nervous.

Fortified with champagne, I get ready for bed too. At least, that's why I assume she's changing. For bed. I don't bother closing the bedroom door while I carefully take off my jacket, dress shirt, and pants. I pull open my underwear drawer and immediately slam it shut again. Wait a minute. Slowly, I ease the drawer open and take another look. Yeah, that tangled pile of lace does not belong to me and wasn't there yesterday. I hook a black panty with my finger and lift it up for inspection. I send a prayer of thanks to whomever's listening for Katniss's friends, because I'm pretty damn sure she'd never buy something like this for herself.

The sound of fabric rustling against the bathroom door brings me back to the task at hand. I throw on fresh boxers and my most romantic pair of flannel pajama bottoms. The ones with no holes in them.

I check my teeth in the dresser mirror, then scope out my armpits for any offensive odors. Should I put a shirt on? Eh, why bother? I guess I'm all set and am about to decide if I should wait in the living room or on the bed, when my eyes light upon the nightstand.

There's something I forgot. I keep my eye on the bathroom door while I slowly inch around the bed, just in case Katniss jumps out unexpectedly. I know she's kind of shy about, well, nudity. I'd hate to burn her retinas on our honeymoon if she came out at the wrong time, unprepared. I'm not spending our honeymoon with a backpack over my groin. Better take it slow and spring it on her at the last moment. When I reach the nightstand, I pull open the shallow drawer looking for my stash of…

Nothing. _Nothing?_ But…my fingers scrabble over the wood bottom, reaching for the very back. I find nothing but dust, an old receipt, and a provocative picture I drew of Katniss, which I should probably destroy before she finds it.

Although, it's a really good drawing—no, mind on the present, Mellark. Pictures won't do you much good when Katniss finds out there's nothing between the two of us and a herd a children if I don't find the condoms.

I gulp…or worse…she won't…at all. Even though it's our honeymoon.

Okay, don't overreact. Think. Condoms don't just vanish. Well, not usually.

Okay, okay. Where else could they be _in the apartment_.

I check under the pillows, the mattress, the dresser drawers and our closet. It occurs to me that Katniss spent yesterday and this morning moving her stuff in. (Which explains why my clothes aren't sorted by shade anymore, because hers are shoved in at random). I mean, she could have put them anywhere. Haymitch said that after Effie moved in, he couldn't find anything anymore. Like his liquor. That's probably a good thing in his case. But _this_ could be a disaster.

"Uh, Katniss?" I call.

"I'm not ready!" she squeaks through the door. _Squeaks?_ The girl who took on President Snow is nervous about tonight? Something that doesn't involve death, starvation, bloodshed or cameras?

I try to mellow out my voice. "It's not that…take your time." Please. Until I get this sorted out. "Uh…you didn't clean out my nightstand did you?"

"No. I haven't touched it."

If Katniss didn't touch them, who did? I mean, I'm pretty sure I didn't accidentally walk into someone else's flat and put my condoms in someone else's drawer. Then a nasty thought niggles its way through my mind. Someone else might walk into someone else's flat to _steal_ condoms. "Did you happen to let anyone in here yesterday after I left?"

"Just your brothers."

_Just_ my brothers?My stomach feels like it drops all at way down to my ankles. _Gnatpucky!_

"Why would you—," I breathe for a moment to get the shrillness out of my voice. "I mean, what did they want?"

She replies, but it's muffled. The conversation through the door is starting to grate on my nerves. Two hours into our marriage and there's already a door between us. "What was that, Katniss?"

"They dropped off a cake, I think. I don't know," she says. "Annie and Prim were dragging me off to that pedicure thing. Bran offered to lock up for me."

I sit on the bed and choke. Bran wouldn't do that to me. Would he? After I expressly forbade them from delivering that cake to the bachelor party _or to my wife_, he'd still do it. And then he'd sabotage me? Leven would never do something like that without Bran goading him into it. What the hell? I slam the small drawer closed with my foot. My hands form into the fists I'd like to use on my brothers right now. Should have known that they'd pull something _more_ on me.

All right. It's okay. There's one backup plan. In my wallet. Just in case Katniss and I, you know, couldn't wait between the ceremony and the cake reception.

I dig out my wallet from my trousers, flip past the picture of Katniss, past the ration tickets, to the secret pocket, slip my fingers inside and pull out a…piece of paper? I unfold the square of sturdy cardstock. Scribbled across, it reads,

_IOU._

_Thnx, G.H._

_I owe you – Thanks, G...H...Got Haymitch? no...Gale Hawthorne! _

The hell? Is everyone conspiring to ruin this moment? Yeah, because I've only been on the verge of death, captured by the Capitol, and all for the love of Katniss. No big deal. Fine, humiliate me with bizarre golden skirts, magic paint, and whatever. Steal my condoms. I'm a man. I can handle it_. _I just want to know how Gale knew about my secret stash, how he managed to pick my pocket? And what could he possibly need a condom for? _A water balloon fight? _Last I heard, Madge has been pretty withholding. Which must be pretty hard on a slag-heap champion like Hawthorne.

As a last resort, I trudge back into the living room, then to the kitchen. Grabbing a kitchen chair, I haul it over to the stove and climb up. This is probably the most useless cabinet in the entire kitchen. Too small for storage of dishes or cookware, and too high for convenience. Still, it's a pretty good hiding spot for unwanted and embarrassing gifts, which I haven't had time to deal with properly yet. I open the small cupboard doors and toss out the boxes and bags onto the counter.

I walk past the gifts, heading for the fridge. First things first, I open the pastry box and my suspicions are confirmed. An anatomy lesson in cake. How my brothers got cake pans in _that_ shape, I'll never know. To add insult to injury, it's not even chocolate.

The cake goes down the incinerator, and the bottle of champagne goes into a bucket of ice. I reach for what is now my third glass and start pulling out my survival items one by one, hoping maybe that somewhere inside there's a condom tucked in. So, let's see, I now have sugar cubes, a net, length of rope, jars of paint, and of course duct tape. My honeymoon survival kit. An eclectic assortment of gifts from a confederation of idiots.

And then there's Cinna's gift, still kept carefully in its box. I actually have high hopes for that one. I'm about to open the boxes when I hear the soft patter of feet over the linoleum. I almost startle out of my skin, and my eyes dart over to my new bride.

"What are you doing out here?" she asks.

"Er." I blink at her stupidly, taking in her long, bare legs and slowly working my way upward. Her face is free of makeup and her long hair tumbles loosely down her back. She clutches a silky black robe tightly around herself. It wouldn't take much at all to get it to slip off her shoulders if I-

Oh man. I have to hold that thought. I have to tell her that we're not protected, and as far as I know, she isn't using an alternative.

"Peeta?" She waves her hand in front of my face. "Are you having a seizure? Your eyes look funny."

I blink and hope the glazed look goes away. "Uh..." Seizure? I shake my head.

"What's that?" she points to the row of objects on the counter.

Right, the honeymoon survival kit. "Oh, this stuff is just, um…" I glance at the items again, deciding that my pure Katniss probably isn't ready for the true meaning behind the gifts. "Well, the rope is to tie things up." Like Katniss if she decides to bolt or throw another backpack on me. "The sugar cubes are for tea; the net is for fishing...for cave trout." I lift up the paint from my brothers, wondering how to communicate the function of this particular kind of paint, without lying or telling the truth at the same time. "And these are for...uh...embossing?"

Katniss's eyebrows pinch together. "And the duct tape?"

"Minor...repairs." Yeah, I really hope that Gale's not right about my leg. I hadn't even thought about the possibility of my leg falling off until last night. I stayed awake way too long after the party, raking through the book from Haymitch, looking for possible alternatives in case something like that should happen. Fortunately, lovemaking's pretty adaptable, I learned. "You never know when something will need to be put back together. Heh."

At first, I don't think she believes the reinterpretation of the gifts, but then Katniss cinches the belt a little tighter around her waist, nodding slightly in approval. "At least you got things that are actually practical."

I clear my throat, coughing through the shock of her easy acceptance - and just how wrong she is. "It's to be expected," I fudge. "They're guys after all. What did you get?"

Katniss shakes her head, a small look of disgust on her face. "Stupid stuff."

"It can't be that bad," I say. And hope.

Katniss picks up the rope and recoils it into neat, uniform lengths. Up close I can smell something sweet that I would mistake for perfume if I didn't know Katniss better. "You'd be surprised," she mutters.

"How bad can it be?" I tease, plucking a strand of her hair. "After all, Johanna Mason wasn't invited."

Katniss's eyes widen, and then narrow, clearly not enjoying any thought connected to Johanna Mason. She still hasn't forgiven her for the elevator incident.

"I don't want to talk about Johanna Mason," she says, giving me the stink eye. "Especially tonight."

"Alright, we can talk about something else." Or just not talk. That's good too.

I offer her the other glass of champagne and steer her over to the couch. She tries to sit on the opposite side, but I rectify that pretty quick. A few drops of her champagne spill on my chest when I pluck her off the cushion, but otherwise, she's neatly situated on my lap.

Her robe gapes open, revealing an old standard-issue tank top and a pair of my boxers she filched a few months ago. Sticking out from her tank top is a black lace strap. My finger slides beneath it, plucking the elastic.

"This is all they gave you for your bachelorette party?" I ask.

Katniss glances down at her bra strap and her workaday pajamas with a frown. "Well, no," she admits.

"What other gifts did you get?" I mean, someone must have given her that lacy underwear I found.

"Besides Quintus jumping out of the cake?" she mutters.

_"What?" _I sputter. _You mean you weren't the chief source of amusement?_

"Relax. He only recited poetry," Katniss says. Then she blushes and admits, "I got a few other things from the girls."

"Anything you liked?" I ask, aiming for casual. "And when were you planning to use them?"

"You want to see one?" Katniss asks tentatively while she plays with the tie on her gaping robe.

Yeah, it's only our honeymoon. But that's Katniss. Ornamentation's not her thing. She probably can't understand why couples would care about garments you can really only wear appropriately in _one _situation. So, I shrug, trying to act less eager than I am. "Sure, why not?"

Katniss swallows, but gives a terse nod, balling her fists at her side like a good soldier. "Alright, just give me a second." Then she jabs me in the chest with her bony finger. "And don't come in."

I cross my heart. "I won't. Baker's honor."

Katniss rolls her eyes, getting up to go, but I hold her wrist. "Wait. Put some of this on it first." I run back to the counter where I left Cinna's gift. I pull the jar out, tossing the box behind me. I hand it to her. "Sprinkle some of this onto it."

She looks suspicious. "What's in the jar?"

"It's our gift from Cinna," I tell her honestly. It dissipates any doubts from her mind. Cinna's trustworthy.

She holds the jar under my nose. "This goes on my clothes?"

"That's what it says on the box." I grin, daring her to chicken out. She makes a face, then leaves me standing alone in the living room.

The door closes behind her while I settle onto the couch, my curiosity now piqued by all of Katniss's hemming and hawing. But then that niggling doubt creeps back into my mind now that she's gone. Maybe asking her to put on her lingerie was a mistake.

What am I going to do about our little problem? My brothers want to lure me out, so I can't pop out to visit the pharmacy on Level 2. Who knows were my brothers are lurking - and there's no way they wouldn't be if they went through all this trouble to steal my stash. I'm not leaving so they can either waylay me or sneak in and steal my bride and take her barhopping on Level 4 before I can get back.

After about three minutes of meditating on the situation, Katniss interrupts, reawakening all of my curiosity and seriously weakening my resolve to do the right thing.

"You all set?" I ask with rising expectations.

"Not yet," she calls out from behind the door. "Is the powder supposed to do something?"

Nuts. "I guess. Eventually." Then I have a good idea to speed things up. "Do you need me to help?"

"NO!" I hear on the other side of the bedroom door.

After another five minutes, I walk over and knock on the door. "Katniss, why is it taking so long?" I whine.

Katniss sounds like she's strangling herself with the lingerie, not wearing it. "Promise me you won't laugh."

I bang my head against the door. Did I mention I've been waiting for this moment for over three years?

"Come on," I groan. "I swear I won't laugh." Far from it. Not even if she comes out wearing a replica of Finnick's gold fishnet skirt.

The door suddenly opens, and I nearly stumble into Katniss. My hands go out by reflex, but she sidesteps me with a shriek. "What were you doing standing against the door?" she yelps.

"Guuhh?" I say, or something similar. All my mental faculties are on the fritz. Synapses in my brain come unsnapped. My mouth goes dry. Not hard to believe considering Katniss is standing in front of me covered in, well, almost nothing. And what little material she is wearing is see-through, in a smoky veil sort of way. An uneven kerchief hem flows down from her fitted bodice, barely covers the top of her thighs. It teasingly reveals so much, and obscures the essentials, making my fingers itch to remove it.

"What was that again?" Katniss's eyebrows raise, but I can tell she's fighting a smile.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. I'm supposed to be good with words. Eloquent.

Yeah. I've got nothing.

"You should see the other things they gave me." Katniss says wryly, filling in the silence. She seems to be gaining confidence as I fall to pieces.

"There's more?" I ask with an embarrassingly hopeful crack in my voice.

"Yeah." She rolls her eyes. "Want to see?"

I scratch the back of my neck. "On you?"

Katniss wrinkles her nose in distaste. "You really want me to try on more clothes right now?"

"Good point." She's supposed to be getting _out _of her clothes, not putting on more. I've got another idea. "I'd still like to see, though."

Katniss does that resigned sigh she keeps on reserve, but retrieves more pasteboard boxes from the closet. I take a seat on the bed and get a nice view when she bends over to pick them up off the floor. I'd whistle but my lips won't cooperate. And again, dry mouth. Then there's the comical moment when she realizes she's exposed and her hand flies to the back of her thighs to feel the smooth, bare skin where the fabric should be. Katniss snaps up straight with a deep blush burning across her cheeks, looking sheepishly over her shoulder to see if I noticed. Like I could help it. My eyebrow arches in a way that I hope is smug and not dopey. I stifle a laugh because she'll take it wrong.

Katniss sniffs and pretends it didn't happened. She lays the boxes on the bed and opens the top one, folding aside the tissue paper. I do the honor of pulling out a violet silk slip while Katniss nervously chews on her bottom lip.

"Well?" she asks when I don't say anything.

"Hmm." Then I throw the slip on the floor and purse my lips like I'm thinking. I mean, I _am_ thinking. I mean. Yeah. "Not bad. Looks great with the carpet."

She gapes at me. "What?"

I reach for the next box and do the same with a turquoise corset. And the next outfit with the feathery stuff, until all the diaphanous, shiny, velvety nighties are strewn on the floor at the foot of our bed.

"Peeta, what are you doing?" Katniss cries, looking upset for someone who doesn't like to dress up. "You don't like them?"

"Of course I like them," I tell her. "I'm just putting them where they belong."

"Be serious," she scoffs, stepping around me to retrieve them. I stop her, though.

"Totally serious." I take her in my arms. Look her over. "Wow, I just—" I can't think of anything else to say. So my hand slips underneath her soft hair, gently cradling the back of her neck, and I kiss her. Slowly, she relaxes and it's just her and me, and my sweatpants and her nightie...I should tell her that I don't have anything to prevent baby Mellark Jr., but yeah, I'm already undressing her in my head and her lips are on my throat...

Her kisses wreak havoc on my conscience. As in, I had one. Until she kissed me. We trip toward the bed, collapsing onto the mattress, creasing the comforter. The boxes and our pillows join her gifts on the floor.

Hey, what do you know! After I try to slip the straps off her shoulders, I notice that the rest of the sheer material from her breasts to the hem bunched at the top of her thighs has started to glow a little, like if glitter had microscopic flames. Distracted, I stop kissing her and prop myself up on my elbows.

"What is it?" she asks, her dark eyes wide with surprise.

I reach the lamp and switch it off. The golden-orange and red pinpricks of light from Katniss's lingerie twinkle on the walls and ceiling. On my chest as I hover over her. Cinna's gift for the tributes he set on fire.

A strangled, frustrated growl escapes my throat. It's perfect. She's perfect. But we're screwed and I'm going to murder my brothers and Gale The-prick-thorne.

"What's wrong?" she asks. "You sound like you're in pain. Is it your leg?"

"No, it's not my leg." Why is everyone concerned about my leg? I collapse onto my back and rake my fingers through my hair. "Katniss, there's something I have to tell you and I don't think you're going to like it."

She sits up fast, twinkling like the night sky. "What is it?"

"I'm really sorry. My brothers stole all of my...," for some reason using the word right now seems crude. "We don't have any protection."

"Oh." Her eyes widen as my meaning hits home. "Ooh." Her teeth tug at the corner of her mouth as she processes the implications the hijacked condoms have on the rest of our evening. "Well, it's not like we haven't waited this long already." She tucks herself up next to me and yawns. "We'll just get some at the store tomorrow. I was feeling kind of tired anyway. It's been a long day."

That's it? I mean, it's not like I expected her to throw caution to the wind (though I was kind of hoping for it). But she could have at least shown some sadness and disappointment. Or anger and annoyance, which come so naturally for her. Instead, I get apathy? On my wedding night. I need another drink.

"Alright. Tomorrow. Good night." With a sigh, I push myself up and sit on the edge of the bed. My feet hang off the side of the mattress, just about to hit the floor when Katniss's laughter stops me. The sound catches me off guard, and I turn my head to glance over my shoulder. "What is so funny?"

"Poor Peeta." Katniss's fingers dip into the bodice of her slip and I catch myself licking my lips. She pulls out a square of plastic. "Will this do?"

The foil packaging glints from Katniss's nightie lights, like a bad Capitol commercial. Given all the strange things that have gone on in the past 48 hours, I half expect to hear a disembodied announcer-voice explain to me the benefits of this brand over its leading competitors. Or worse, an endorsement from Finnick Odair. I still can't seem to shake the image of him caressing the table and calling it Annie. Just moments after telling me I'm just like her.

Katniss misunderstands my continued silence and becomes flustered. "I found it taped to the bottom of the jar from Cinna," she stammers. Her grip on the square loosens, and my last hope for any action this evening wavers between her fingers and the floor, where it might be swallowed up forever. Can't take any chances. I snatch the square from her fingers.

"Only one?" I ask, wondering how many more she could fit in there.

"I think one is ambitious enough for now," she says reasonably.

"Know what? Doesn't matter," I say, turning the foil package over in my fingers. Thank you, Cinna. We're so naming our future son, whom we won't conceive tonight, after that man. Without him, I'd never survive this honeymoon. There wouldn't even be a honeymoon.

I reach for Katniss again. "Now, where were we?"

* * *

**TBC – Epilogue**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** It's not quite December, but I finished NaNo early, and Geeky had half of this chapter ready weeks (months?) ago, so here you are! Final installment of Peeta's Honeymoon Survival Kit (which has surprisingly little to do with Peeta. Heh). Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Part VI - Teh Epilogue

* * *

**

_Gale's POV_ -

Haymitch detaches himself from the dry bar when it finally sinks into his thick skull that Bartel won't even supply him with rubbing alcohol on Effie's orders. His face is screwed up like a well-shaved bear who's been stung on the snout by a bee who didn't like him. And I get the funny feeling that we're in for it as he makes a direct line for the banquet table where Madge and I are seated.

And I'm right. Haymitch drags out a chair next to me that was abandoned by my brother Rory and slumps down into it, casting a jaundiced eye at the pot of coffee in the center. He pours a cup for himself and lets it turn cold.

"Just think, Hawthorne," he grunts while we watch the happy couple cut the cake. "That could have been you this afternoon."

I make a sour face. Yeah. Thanks for rubbing that in. What's next, I wonder. Babies on spikes?

Madge reaches for my hand resting on the tablecloth near the five extra fancy forks I didn't know what to do with during dinner. My first instinct is to pull both of our hands under the table, out of Haymitch's view, but I see what she's doing. A show of solidarity.

"Well, I'm glad Gale didn't marry Katniss," she says sweetly to Haymitch, but batting her long eyelashes at me. I'm a sucker for that and she knows it, as evidenced by the many times she's blinked me into holding her handbag.

"Yeah, yeah," Haymitch mutters. "I guess you two will be tying the knot soon too." Haymitch grunts. "Great. It'll keep Effie out of my hair planning the auspicious occasion."

Eugh. The last thing I want is Effie Trinket, Games escort turned wedding planner, trussing me up like a monkey and parade me around like she did to Mellark today.

Besides, she knows all these weird marriage customs. That's not my idea of a good time. In fact, we're watching one of them. Peeta and Katniss shove cake in each others' mouths in front of the crowd. He smudges frosting all over her chin and tries to eat it off. Later on they're forcing us to stand up and wrestle over Katniss's garter. What kinky Capitol tool thought that up?

Probably Quintus McFarlane.

"Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned District 12 wedding?" I mutter. You know, sign some papers at the Justice Building, then go home and have a toasting. Go to bed. Nothing fancy. No extra, voyeuristic guests.

"Oh, it's not all bad," says Haymitch.

"How would you know?" I argue. "You never got married."

"Could be worse, is all I'm saying," Haymitch continues, slicing the air with his hand. "You know, in some indigenous tribes, or in backward districts like Seven, the parents are present to witness the bride and groom's first night. Sometimes even the elders. They give the newlyweds pointers and rate the performance."

"Did Effie tell you that?" Madge gasps, horrified. Her cheeks are bright pink and I have a feeling mine might be too. "It can't be true."

"Sure did," he says. He wags a finger at us. "And you never know when something like that might catch on again."

"Good thing Madge doesn't have any parents," I grouse, then snap my mouth shut as Madge gives me a bruised look. "I mean..."

Haymitch notices my slip and he gets a nasty gleam in his eye. "Tribal elders and guardians fill in when necessary." He digs an elbow into my side. Then he gets up again and says, "Don't have to check the sheets the next morning to make sure the deed was done properly." Then he stalks away. The suggestion hangs like the ague between my ribs. Haymitch is Madge's guardian for all intents and purposes. Something to do with the some debt to her Aunt Maysilee.

I can't look at Madge for a few moments while I digest this potentially idle threat. "He's not serious," I whimper.

Madge bites her lip. "He's sober. Who can tell?"

I loosen my hand from her grip and rub my jaw line nervously. Hell's teeth.

I can't help it. I start to panic a little. I don't want Haymitch thinking about Madge and I that way, let alone showing up for the blessed event. And judging by the way we treated Peeta at the bachelor party, I've got some bad karma coming down. I expect some trouble from my brothers, but Haymitch would be too much to bear.

"Gale, is something wrong?" Madge runs her hand up and down my arm soothingly. "You're white as a sheet."

Sheets. I shudder. _Don't think about it_, I order myself. I doesn't work. My mind starts formulating plans for a way around any sort of public ceremony. Or public wedding night.

While I'm plotting, Effie drags a mutinous-looking Katniss to the middle of the dance floor and orders all the single ladies to join her. Madge has to go, though reluctantly, because all the traitorous girls in the room are pointing out all the other singles who are trying to hide from the indignity. Madge gets up, shakes off her blue dress, and traipses away, leaving me alone to plot.

Katniss turns to face away from the girls and purposefully aims away from Prim, who pouts. The bouquet hits Delly Cartwright square in the face and lands at Madge's feet. She scoops it up before Delly can recover and gives the girl a saucy, triumphant smirk.

The women are cleared off the dance floor and someone brings Katniss a chair for the garter thing. Madge comes back with the flowers and waves them at me. The bright blossoms remind me of Effie Trinket. Blech. Madge settles in her chair and says cheerfully, "Look, I'm next."

"For what?" I ask distractedly, trying to ignore the fact that Peeta is digging around in Katniss dress in public.

"To get married, silly," Madge says. Just then, Peeta pulls out a lacy wad of material that I hope is Katniss's garter and not her underwear. "That's the tradition."

Traditions. Hell's teeth. Between Haymitch, Peeta, and Madge, I feel a tension headache coming on. I rub my temples and forehead.

Madge's hand presses gently on my shoulder. "Gale, you look pale. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Headache."

"Poor you," Madge croons. She digs around in her purse for some aspirin, pulling everything out one by one. Random stuff that gets stuck at the bottom of women's bags. An old battery, a tube of lipstick, a few crumpled receipts. A holographic business card catches my eye. On the front, a squinty-eyed hobgoblin winks at me and blows kisses. On the other side, it reads,

_Quintus McFarlane's Married-in-a-Hurry Hobgoblin Hovercraft of Love: licensed pilot, ordained minister, escort, tattoo artist, midwife, knitting instructor, cake jumper, yodeler, kitten peddler, mohel._

"What is this?" I demand, turning it over to the goblin.

Madge takes a look at the card and bites her lip. "Oh, just something I got from Katniss's party."

I scowl. "Quintus McFarlane handed out cards at her bachelorette party?" I ask suspiciously.

Madge clears her throat guiltily. "He...he was in the cake."

"In the cake?" I repeat stupidly.

"Until he jumped out," she stammers.

My eyebrows collide in the middle of my forehead. They had a pilot jump out of a cake? I thought I knew Madge and her friends better than that.

"Oh, don't use your scary eyebrows on me, Gale," she hisses. "He only recited poetry and he had on most of his clothes." Her voice has a studied air to it, like she's rehearsed that line.

"Most of his clothes?"

She shrugs. "Well, the important bits were all covered, anyway."

"Margaret Donner Undersee," I intone.

"I didn't invite him!" she protests. "Besides, he was making eyes at Nevada Rockbridge the whole time."

"Oh. Well, that's all right," I grouse sardonically. I glance at the card in my hand again. I wonder where he puts these if he's only wearing...ew. I drop the card.

But then I have an idea that could save everything. Married in a Hurry Hobgoblin Hovercraft of Love. That would solve our problems and probably resemble a traditional Twelve wedding. The longer I think about it, the more I like it.

"Madge, what about you and me just running off and doing it? Getting married, just like that." I snap my fingers for emphasis.

She wrinkles her nose. "Running off in the middle of the night to get married when nobody knows?"

"Yeah." I shrug. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

Madge wrinkles her nose. "An elopement?" she reiterates.

"Sure."

"Where did that come from?" Madge laughs. "You must be in a good mood again if you're cracking jokes."

"I'm not joking, Madge," I say, twisting around in the chair to face her better. "Haven't you ever thought about it? We could get married _right now_." And no Haymitch, no Effie, no annoying ceremony. No fishing around in Madge's dress in front of people.

Madge gets a faraway look in her eyes and I can tell that she's considering the possibility.

Of course, there are some logistics to consider. Like where will we go afterward? My quarters are full of little kids and my mom. Madge has a roommate. The housing office won't be open all weekend. I guess we could find a closet somewhere.

And then there's the problem of making sure we don't get a jump start on the next generation of Hawthornes. Um. I've got some stamps in my wallet, but I have a feeling that McFarlane will charge for his services. I have enough money to maybe cover it, but not extra for anti-baby equipment.

Now, in the Seam, we made do without much money. What would I have done in this situation back home?

Effie calls all the bachelors to the floor so that Peeta can fling that garter at us. A grin snakes its way over my face because now I have a plan. What I need is a responsible male who won't miss his wallet for a few seconds. And a sucker. Peeta fits both of those descriptions. He won't miss it. I bet he's all loaded up for the big night. All I need to do is get close to him when hardly anyone else is around.

I could catch that garter.

"Madge, give me a pen," I tell her.

She frowns at me. I guess it's an unusual request from someone like me. "Why?"

"Just...please."

I grab the pen from her and snatch the fancy card with my name and table number on it. I scribble a hasty note, initial it, and get up to join the boys on the floor. Peeta turns his back on us and sling-shots the garter into the melee. It arcs in the air and we scramble for it.

Rory goes down when I elbowed him in the chest. A few of the underlanders don't even try. The Mellark boys are another story. I jump...reaching...almost hook it with my finger. One grabs my legs. Two tries to muscle me out of the way with his shoulder. He lands on top of me, knocking the breath out of my lungs, but they can't pry the garter out of my fingers. More than some stupid tradition wrests on this.

Madge and I, flower and garter champs, pose with the Peeta and Katniss for a picture in front of some fake outdoor backdrop. I maneuver so that I'm just behind the couple. My hand slip into Peeta's back pocket, which will never happen again after this, and snatch out the thin wallet in the blink of an eye. Nobody sees it. Peeta doesn't feel the difference in his now empty pocket. Sucker.

I keep my eyes on the camera to avoid suspicion. All wallets have the same basic inner layout. From memory, my fingers flip to the "secret" pocket and - tinfoil jackpot. I pull out the coveted item and slip in my note, returning the wallet to Peeta's pocket with the skill of a seasoned street kid. Effie doesn't have to remind me to smile widely for the camera.

"We're leaving already?" Madge cries as I drag her out the doors. She barely has time to pull her wrap around her shoulders as we rush down the cool corridor. "We haven't had a dance yet!"

_Oh, we'll have a dance. Just not here. And not in the way you think_.

"Come along, Madge," is all I say.

"Where are we going?" she harps.

"To the hangar."

"But why?" Madge digs in her feet, forcing me to stop or to pull her arm out of her socket. I let go and she folds the endangered limb across her chest with her other arm. "Oh no. This isn't about your elopement idea, is it?"

I smooth the hair on the back of my head. "Maybe."

"Don't you think it's a bit rash?" she reprimands me.

"Look," I say reasonably, "We can get married this way, or we're stuck doing it Effie and Haymitch's way."

Madge bites her lips. "Surely you don't believe that dreadful story he told you."

I believe Haymitch would go out of his way to put someone in an uncomfortable spot, if he could. But I try a different tactic on Madge. "You won't have to spend one more night with Delly Cartwright," I remind her, dropping my voice an octave and blinking back imaginary moisture. "Unless you'd prefer to go on as roommates with her rather than me."

That decides it. I can tell by the look in her readable blue eyes. Madge hasn't been able to stand Delly since they were assigned to share quarters and the girl started showing up in places where she shouldn't.

"Of course I'd rather live with you," she protests.

I sigh. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"Well...," Madge drawls. "I suppose we could elope. It's just..." Madge looks both ways on the corridor, then whispers, "What if people get the wrong impression?"

I place my hand over my breast pocket, giving her a half-grin. "Oh, I've made sure they won't."

...

The Hobgoblin Hovercraft of Love wouldn't be hard to miss even without the green rope lights flashing a path to the macked-out besra with the outrageous pinup.

There's a bell pull outside the hatch, which I tug on once. Instantly, an invisible recording starts playing a twangy song that echoes all over the hangar.

_He'll be flying 'round the mountain when he comes..._

The sounds of fumbling and objects being shoved aside come from inside. The music cuts out and the hatch opens. A green, bejeweled head pokes out through a set of hanging bead curtains.

Captain Quintus McFarlane sets his eyes on us and we're nearly blinded by his ultra-white and sparkly smile.

"Ah. Visitors," he croons. "Hop on up."

I help Madge up, then follow her into the fuselage. If I hadn't seen the place from the outside, I'd never believe it was a hovercraft on the inside. Faded oriental rugs line the floor. Framed magazine clips hang on the wall; it takes a moment to realize that all the people with different hair color are really just Quintus. Above us, red, blue and purple rope lights crawl along the ceiling like toxic veins. I smell something sweet, like Quintus is burning vanilla cupcake candles somewhere out of view. The only furniture is a row of teak chests and pile of cushions. He drags two out from the bottom and makes us sit on them.

"Tea?" he asks, not waiting for an answer. We watch Quintus disappear into the cockpit and emerge with two steaming mugs of green stuff, which are forced into our hands. Quintus steps back from the cushions and eyes us for what feels like an age while we stare back at him.

"Now, let's proceed," he says all of a sudden. Madge and I exchange glances, wondering what he means. After all, Quintus hasn't even asked why we're here. But he's busy dashing over the small space. The hot tea scalds my hand while I watch him pulling open drawers and raking through them.

"Aha!" He grabs a book, tucks it under his arm. He throws on a black collar with a white stripe down the middle. Then he takes the untouched cups of tea from our hands even as Madge tries to take a sip. He directs us over to stand in front of the interior engine, which has a white cloth draped over it like an alter. He situates us, then places the book on the alter. He licks his fingers, then flips to the page he's looking for.

"Ah. Here we are. Dearly beloved...er," Quintus pauses. His finger toggles between us. "You are here to get married, aren't you?"

Madge and I exchange a glance. "Yesss."

Quintus holds his hands up defensively. "Just checking. That's always an awkward mistake to make. Guys come in here for a piercing and leave with a bride." He clucks his tongue. "Messy business, especially when the happy pair don't know each other."

"Quintus," I grumble.

"Yes?"

"Keep reading."

Quintus clears his throat. "Ahem. Dearly beloved, we gather here in the sight of the Hobgoblin and all these witnesses - namely me - to witness the union of this guy and her..."

"Wait...we need witnesses?" Madge asks.

"What?" Quintus blinks from his book. He turns it over then back again, as if looking for something. "Oh. Nah."

"But you just said _all these witnesses_," Madge tells him.

Quintus taps his lips thoughtfully with his book. "If anybody asks, my name means 'five,' so...just say you had _quinti_ witnesses at the wedding and we're good. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to proceed."

We don't interrupt after that.

"Alrightee...la dee dah," he scans the page to find his place. "Ah. You two aren't married to other people, yeah?"

We glance at each other. "Definitely not."

"No other lawful reasons why I should call the ceremony quits?" he asks. "You aren't near relations? On your conscience, now."

Besides the fact that the very nature of this ceremony is cause for concern? "No."

"Good, good. Now." Quintus asks me, "Do you take her to be your wife?"

My throat constricts. For such a short question I suddenly feel a lot of pressure. But I manage to utter a, "Yes."

"And do you take him?" Quintus asks Madge. She opens her mouth to answer, but he interrupts. "You won't be able to give him back, you know."

"A-alright."

Quintus beams beatifically. "Then our work here is done." Then he holds up a finger. "Except for the kiss. Sorry. Can't forget that."

I give Madge a quick peck on the lips.

"Well, that was steamy," says Quintus dryly. "Now pay up."

I fish the wallet out of my pocket and pull out some of the stamps to count out. Quintus snatches them from my fingers, scribbles his name on a certificate he tore out from the back of his book, which he hands to Madge, then he bustles us out of the hatch.

"Congratulations for getting married in a hurry. Stop by the Hobgoblin Hovercraft of Love again soon. You make a lovely couple. Mazel tov. Invite me to the bris! Ta-ta!"

"Invite him to the what?" Madge ask as we trip down the aisle of green lights.

"Forget it," I tell her, grabbing her hand to pull her along. "I think he's crazy."

Madge rolls her eyes. "What did you expect from a guy who runs a wedding business out of his hovercraft?"

Well. There is that. Now, where to get this honeymoon rolling...

...

_Teh Quintus_

Nev shows up before the maintenance crew shuts off the hangar lights. "All done here?" she asks from outside the door.

Quintus jumps down from Hobgoblin and gives her a kiss. "Yep."

"Come on, then," she says, pulling on his collar. "Let's go home."

He smirks. "I'm right behind you."

They walk arm in arm past a certain sparrowhawk fighter.

"Is that windshield supposed to be steamed up like that?" Nevada asks.

Quintus's head swivels round to see what she means. "What? Oh."

His eyebrows knit together as he considers the situation. He has a good guess about who might be in there and what sort of extracurricular activities they might be up to.

"Funny, I always took that surly chap for more of a slag heap sort," he mumbles to himself.

"What?" Nev asks. "Never mind. Quintus, I think we should investigate."

His eyes grow wide. "No, I definitely think we shouldn't," he replies, on no uncertain terms. "Come along, moon of my delight. Let's mind our own business."

Quintus grabs Nev's arm and pulls her away from the corrupted hovercraft.  
_..._

_Finnick's POV_

The door shuts, and I look up to see my healer, wearing a shapeless, formless white lab coat. Typical of District 13. No gold fishnet. No sparkly workwear. Probably no fur-trimmed underwear. Just hardhats and coveralls. Boring through and through.

"Sorry to keep you waiting..." the healer pauses, glances down at a chart, "Mr. Odair."

I try not to move in greeting, but the reflex can't be helped, though I wish it could. The movement, any movement, shoots pain straight to my ribs and down my torso. My fists clench, but that only causes my biceps to tense, another place desecrated by those brutes in Intimate Apparel.

I catch the name tag on the coat. Rockwell House. "No problem, Healer House. And you can call me Finnick."

"The bounds between patient and healer must always be strictly observed...Mr. Odair."

Hmph. I wipe the pearly grin off my face. What is it about being in D13 that makes everyone so cold?

The healer sets down the chart. I can see a picture of the human figure, spread-eagle, with different lines connecting dots on the body. Coincidentally, or perhaps not so coincidentally, all those dots correspond to the injured areas on me, which I described faithfully before I was admitted to see the doc.

"Alright, Mr. Odair, I can see you are in a lot of pain, so I'll try to make this quick," Healer House says.

"Not too quick, if you please," I reply. "My injuries are such that a thorough exam and treatment are necessary."

The doctor's eyebrows raise, so I elaborate. "I'm out of commission until the bruises heal."

"Commission?" the doctor politely inquires.

I find it hard to believe that any underlander wouldn't recognize my posters, so I strike a pose, throwing both arms behind my head and smirking. I call it the Riveter. And if this image didn't rivet itself into the doctor's brain, I'd be surprised.

Resuming the pose makes me wince. Good thing I've practiced my exercises so many times. Otherwise I'd never be able to hold the smolder through the pain that lances through my side the instant I raise my arms. My eyes start to water, and at first I feel embarrassed, but then I remember Cinna's words. The people expect blood, sweat, and tears. And they find it sexy.

"Ah, yes. The propaganda posters. I hear those are very popular among the troops. Especially the female ones," the doctor says, sounding a bit miffed. Has Haymitch's poison spread throughout the ducts of the entire Underground? Or is my healer jealous of the attention I get from the ladies?

I shrug, and instantly regret it. The milk's sedative effects are starting to wear off, and each and every one of my bruises throbs to protest the ill-considered movement. "Can't help that. But I assure you, I only care what my wife thinks about the posters."

"Is that so?" says the doctor dryly.

"Yup."

"And what does she think about them?"

I lick my lips, thinking about Annie's response when I brought the proofs from the last shoot home. I will never look at a pair of dice the same way again. Ever. "Oh, I think she likes them. A lot."

"I see."

"And if I don't recover soon, there will be consequences," I remind Dr. House. "For the rebel effort." I start to lower my arms, but the doctor holds up a hand.

"Actually, you can stay like that. It allows me easier access to your body." The doctor coughs. "That is, it allows me to see your injuries more easily."

"Sure, doc, whatever you say."

The healer's smile is warm and assuring. If I could move without bringing on the crippling pain, I'd sigh in relief. "Now please, Mr. Odair, remove your clothes."

The room is cold, but I still feel a thin sheen of sweat form across my skin. I flash back to that other time I was ugly. In the clock arena with those god-awful scabs and green paste. At least then, I couldn't see how ghastly I looked. Here, there is a mirror right across from me and I'll be forced to view my disfigurement. Bruises. Scrapes. Swelling. All so hideous.

I fold my arms across my chest. Looking down, I notice they're covered with goosebumps in the most putrefying shades of purple and yellow. "Are you sure that's necessary?" I hedge.

The doctor's eyebrows raise a centimeter. "Last time I checked, you didn't have training in medicine," says House dryly.

I bite my tongue. Sure, I could bring up how I saved Peeta with some mouth-to-mouth action, but this is probably neither the time nor place. Without further argument, I unbutton my shirt and let if fall off my shoulders.

The zipper of my pants becomes stuck about half way down. As I look to see what the problem is, I am faced with a little, actually enormous, piece of info I'd overlooked. "Um, I kind of, uh-"

"Yes, Mr. Odair?" the healer says impatiently, tapping a pen against the table.

"I'm not wearing any underwear...whoops."

The healer grins like a chesire cat. "It's alright. Nothing I haven't seen before."

"Yeah, I suppose not." Down go the pants, right next to my shirt. Sweet freedom at last.

"Do you need me to do anything else?" I ask, slowly raising my sore arms over my head again.

My question interrupts my healer's furious scribbling on a pad. Probably my prescription. Tapping pen against chin, the healer responds, "If you would be so kind, please have a seat." Gingerly, I move my body over to the flat surface indicated by the doctor and hoist myself up. It's a lot harder to do with your hands raised above your head. I can't help the groan that escapes my mouth as I settle onto the unforgiving flat tabletop. I'm in pain. Plus, it's really, really cold.

The doctor raises a brow, but makes no comment. Just circles the table as I sit there stark naked, looking me over from head to toe.

"Now how did you get hurt?" If I'm not mistaken, I detect some pity in the healer's voice. Good. I need all TLC I can get.  
Tell the bald, ugly truth or pretty it up a bit? "I sustained these injuries while infiltrating uncharted territory in order to retrieve an essential item for one of the Rebellion's figureheads. My snatch and grab mission was interrupted by a handful of operatives, trained in the methods of torture. They beat me with hand-help weapons before bodily launching me into a pod of splinters and pain. I narrowly escaped with my life."

The healer looks over with bated breath and dilated pupils. Probably not used to such displays of heroics. "Really? That sounds dangerous."

"Oh it was, it was! Just picture it. My heart pounding, muscles straining, sweat glistening all over my body, clothes torn nearly to shreds by some human/pig hybrid muttation whose sole intent was to see my hopes and dreams snuffed out. Don't mention the despair of potentially failing my mission."

The healer grips the pen so tight, I'm surprised it doesn't burst and shoot ink everywhere. "I think I can see it." The doctor's eyes open. Head shakes as if to clear it. "Did you succeed?"

"Thankfully another soldier was able to locate the item elsewhere." I grin, and punctuate it with a wink. "Mission accomplished."

"Thank goodness for that. Well, let's get started on your examination, shall we?"

Snap.

The ominous sound of the doctor's glove smacking against skin sends a shudder down my body. "Just be careful," I warn.

"Of course," the healer says, lightly tracing a bruise on my arm. "I can see how delicate you are."

What? The doctor ignores my scowl and proceeds with the exam.

The healer starts with my ribs. "Just bruised, most likely."

"Just bruised?" Not with this amount of pain. Impossible. And I know something about injuries after all I've been through.

"Given the amount of dairy you imbibe daily, as indicated on your files, it's hardly likely that you've cracked or broken _anything_."

Ah. Well, there is that.

I don't question the doc much after that. As the seconds pass, I begin to relax. I name the muscle groups as the healer examines them, feeling the tension escape until there is pressure on my right bicep. I draw away, hissing in pain. My teeth dig into my lower lip, and I submit myself once more to the healing hands of the good doctor as each corresponding dot on the chart is connected and examined. No pain, no gain.

But when it happens a second time, I can't take it any longer.

"Ouch, _Annie_, that hurts like the blazes!"

"Really?" she gasps, dropping the affectation. "I thought you were pretending. I'm so sorry, Finny. You should have said something sooner." She removes the gloves and throws them in the trash. Great, now I'll have to snatch another pair the next time I visit Prim for my indigestion. Or maybe not. I'm not quite sure I like this game all that much, and I saw a much more exciting one in Peeta's book. Eskimo wrestling.

"I clearly wasn't pretending," I say, lowering my arms. They tingle from the blood that rushes back. And Annie's kisses.

"Does that feel better?" she says against a particularly sore spot on my ribs.

"Maybe," I sniff. "But it really hurts over here." I point to a trio of bruises near my shoulder, which she kisses. And then I show her the ones on my stomach. And my arms and legs. Everywhere.

"Aww, my poor Finny's had a really rough week, hasn't he?" Annie asks, in between tending to my maladies. Her lips on my ticklish skin make me squirm.

"The worst week ever," I pout.

Her bottom lip puckers out. "Poor you."

I agree. "So what does the doctor order?"

Annie reaches across me, her hair tickling my chest, as she rips the top paper from the notepad off and hands it to me.

In neat, even handwriting it reads, "Drink three glasses of milk a day, and engage in vigorous physical activity and bedrest. Morning, noon, and night. Repeat as needed."

I sweep Annie from the kitchen table, deciding my rehabilitation starts now. "You promised you'd tell me what you got for Katniss," I remind her as I make my way to the bedroom.

"I'm already wearing it," she says inside the doorway.

I stop while she crawls into bed. "Really?" Looking down, I see Annie lounge across the bed, enveloped in the standard issue lab coat I stole from the doctor's office. "But..."

"Underneath, Finny."

Ahhh.

I quickly climb into bed after Annie, grabbing her foot and dragging her toward me on the opposite side of the mattress until her toes are easy to reach and tease.

"Now that you're fit for service, are you ready for your next mission, Soldier Odair?" she giggles.

I flash her a smirk. "Depends. What is it?" I snatch her toe, tickle her foot. Watch her squirm and arch off the bed while she laughs and begs me to stop.

"First, reconnaissance to find the last f-fishie," she tells me between gasps of laughter.

Ooh! Recon. I approve. Wouldn't want to leave a mission incomplete. "Hmm, could it be in here?"

My impatient fingers cause one of the buttons to pop off the lab coat as I try to pry it open. It doesn't hit me in the eye, but I nearly start to cry anyway as the coat falls away from Annie's torso. Feathers. Fishnet. My fantasy, come to life.

"And then?" I squeak. Swallow. "What's after that?"

Annie's foot teases its up my thigh while she reaches for the table lamp, "Night ops."

* * *

**The End**

_Thanks for reading! _


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